


Stamps and Postmarks

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-18
Updated: 2004-09-24
Packaged: 2018-12-27 10:20:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12079110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: Five years after Brian left him, Justin gets a letter.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

When I see your handwriting on the envelope my heart drops to my feet and I have to lean against the wall to hold myself up. It’s been five, almost six years since I last saw you, but I know your writing like my own. It’s tight and neat, using up as little space as possible. I drop the messenger bag that was slung across my shoulder and open the letter, my hands shaking the entire time.

_I miss you._

That’s that first thing it says, even before my name. _I miss you._ Just like that and it’s so you I almost cry.

_I miss you, Justin. More then you’ll ever know._

_Oh God_ , I think, _I miss you too, Brian_. I scan the rest of the letter quickly, trying to read everything at once. It’s a short letter, very to the point and again so you that the tears stinging behind my eyes start to fall. I’m careful not to let them get on the paper; I don’t want the ink to run. Over two sheets of paper you tell me how good the business is going and that you’re still living alone and haven’t met anyone special. 

_Not like you_ , you write in your careful hand, _there will never be anyone like you for me. Everyone asks when I’m going to meet someone and settle down and I tell them, ‘I already met him, but I was too stupid to stay with him.’_

I sigh quietly and reread that part because I want to be sure that I read it right. I learned from the Kinney Operating Manual long ago how to read carefully between the lines. Beyond the words of _there will never be anyone like you for me_ is written _because I love you like I’ll never love anyone else_. Some things never change.

I read the last page of the letter slowly. He doesn’t ask any questions about me or how things are going in my life, and I know that he’s not expecting a response. It’s very Brian of him to write a letter that he doesn’t want an answer too, just writing to let me know he’s thinking of me. And I know that he already knows I’m thinking of him. I haven’t stopped thinking of him since the day he left.

It seems like yesterday we were standing in the loft, positioned in another of our face offs where someone had to back down but neither of us wanted to be the one to do it. He wanted to leave Pittsburgh, start over somewhere new where no one knew him or us. He wanted to leave behind the memories of my bashing, of his cancer, of his lost reputation as The Stud of Liberty Avenue, of all the people who said we’d never make it as a couple. I wanted to stay; Pittsburgh was my home, our home. We’d been sharing the loft since he asked me to move back in after the Liberty Ride three years ago and I was happy here, I’d thought he was too. 

“I’m leaving Justin, and you can come or you can stay, but if you can stay don’t expect to hear from me again. The loft will always be your home, you can keep living here … but not with me. Never with me again.”

He started packing then and I couldn’t watch, so I’d left and went to Daphne’s to let her play her perfected part of my fag hag and complain to her about Brian. I was sure when I got back to the loft later he’d be there, laying on the bed smoking a cigarette ready to talk sensibly about this.

But he was gone. I was only away for four hours and when I returned all his clothes were gone, his toothbrush and razor missing from the bathroom sink. The only thing he’d left behind for me was his shell bracelet and a note that said only:

_Missing you. -B_

I'd stood in the bedroom and looked around, scared and dying inside. I should have known not to leave, I should have known that he’d do what he said and leave without telling me where he was going. 

I never heard from him again. Until today that is, when I found his letter in the mailbox. He must have known I’d never leave the loft when he sent it here, must have known that I couldn’t move out of the place we’d made a home with our love. 

I searched through the letter looking for some way to contact him, an email address, a phone number, anything. But there was nothing except the return address on the front of the envelope, a house number and a street somewhere in Arizona that I’d never heard of.

I sat down at the desk, the same desk he used to spend hours working at, and started writing him a letter, but nothing sounded right. I’d gone through ten sheets of paper when I finally decided to start the same way he had:

_I miss you, too._

After that the words came easier. I told him about work and the continued success of Rage, even without Michael as the writer since he’d become so busy with the constant stream of children he and Ben fostered. I told him about Debbie and Carl and Emmett and Ted. I told him that I’d finally redecorated the loft, making it more me then us. I told him that I wasn’t seeing anyone special either, that no one I met could measure up to him, could ever replace the things we’d shared, so why bother?

When I was done I’d filled three and a half pages. I read it over and then put pen to paper again to end it. I finally settled on a simple statement of my feelings for him:

_Love, me._

I folded the paper carefully, slid it into an envelope and carefully copied over the return address. I added a stamp and walked around the corner to drop it in the mailbox. I stood by that box for a long time, praying to whoever was listening that he’d write back.

In the two weeks that followed my mailing the letter I thought of little else. I was distracted at work and raced home everyday as early as I could to check the mailbox, but a reply never came. I decided to write to him again, he couldn’t ignore me twice, right? So I picked up the same pen and tried to start another letter, this time with:

_I miss you, Brian._

Because it was the only truth I had. I tried to think of more things to tell him, but the past two weeks had been only about him and that letter, and there wasn’t really anything left to tell him. So I poured my heart out onto those pages and just let it go. I told him how angry I was about how he left. I told him how for weeks afterward I’d cried myself to sleep and woke up at the slightest noise, hoping it was him creeping back into the loft to tell me he was sorry. I raged at him, almost ripping the paper a few times with the anger that was flowing through the pen. I let him know that I still loved him as much as the day he left. I begged with him to answer the letter, do something to let me know he still cared and was thinking of me beyond that one letter he’d written.

_If I have to wait five more years to hear from you I don’t know what I’ll do. Please, Brian._

_Love, me._

I sealed the letter carefully, printed the address and mailed it from the same box. 

I reread his letter again and again. I had sucked out all the possible emotion and between-the-lines subtext that I was surprised the letter hadn’t just turned to dust. The corners were frayed and dog-eared from repeated folding and un-folding. The envelope was dingy and ripped from taking the letter out over and over again. The creases were pressed perfectly flat because of the heavy book I’d been keeping it in. I kept trying to find some clue, any hint at all of him wanting to hear back from me, anything that suggested he might write back in time.

But I found nothing.

* * * *

The flight from the Pitts to Arizona wasn’t that long really. I’d spent most of it rereading Brian’s only letter, looking at the return address, trying to picture where he might be living. I figured it’d be some place like the loft, big enough for just him, barely decorated with just the essentials.

After I landed, I armed myself with a rental car, a map of the city and some sketchy directions from the guy behind the counter. I felt better now that I was taking action, and so what if he didn’t want to see me? He owed me some serious explanations about what happened five years ago and I expected to get what I was owed. Then I planned to throw myself on his mercy and beg him to never leave me again.

Tolleson wasn’t far from the airport, just a small suburb really. I find the road of your return address easily enough on the map, but am surprised when I get there because it’s not a residential area, it’s built up with strip malls and gas stations. I cringe to think of the man I remember living in this neighborhood. I finally stop at a gas station to ask for directions, find out if maybe I’m in the wrong part of town.

The attendant looks at the address I hand him, “nope, you got the right part of town,” He points up the street, “this address used to be the local Travelodge, but they knocked it down about a month ago to make way for the parking lot for the new mall.”

A Travelodge? My Armani and Prada obsessed Brian had set foot in a Travelodge? I got back behind the wheel of the rental car and leaned my head on the steering wheel. 

_Did you write this from that building or just take the address, Brian?_ I ask in my head, knowing that I’ll never get an answer. When I look back up again I’m not sure where I am or what I’m doing there. Did this place ever exist? Was Brian ever really here? Am I really here?

You never wrote back because you never got those letters. You never will get them and I’ll never find you again. You were never really here at all. And now all I have left is my fading memories of you and me and how things used to be.

There is no us anymore. 

There is no you and I. 

There is no Arizona because you’re not here.

And how can anything be real without you there?


	2. Stamps and Postmarks

Two years later and this time it's a postcard that starts with _the bright lights of L.A. have nothing on your smile_. I flip the postcard over to look at the picture and it's just a generic skyline shot of L.A., the only thing I recognize is the Capital Records building. I wonder what kind of game Brian is trying to play with me. I turn the postcard over again to read the rest of it:

_The bright lights of L.A. have nothing on your smile. The sun here can't compete with the light in your eyes. Even on the days when the sky is as blue as it can be, it could never match the blue of your eyes; it will never be as beautiful._  
Love forevermore,  
\--B 

I push a hand through my hair, trying to figure out how I'm supposed to feel right now. There are so many emotions in my head I can barely contain them and I want to scream in frustration. I'm angry with him for leaving in the first place, angry with him not being in butt-fuck Arizona when I tried to find him. I'm sad beyond anything I can process that he's not here, upset that his postcard lends no information to where he might be besides somewhere in L.A.

I stare at the postcard again and wonder what he was thinking about when he mailed it. Was he hoping I'd try to find him again? Was he just letting me know he still thinks about me? I groan in frustration, trying to figure out Brian when he was here was hard enough; I can't be expected to figure him out when I only hear from twice in seven years. I feel hot tears stinging my eyes and I wipe the back of my hand across my eyes, I'm not going to cry over him anymore. 

It's like he knew that I was beginning to put my life back together and picked now to send this. After the disaster that had become my life after that letter, I was finally ready to move on and try to put him in the past. I'd taken down most of the pictures of him I had in the loft, only leaving up the one of him holding Gus and the nude drawing I had done of him not too long after we met. I'd sold of the shares of Kinnetic he'd left in my name to Ted, the company was owned fully by him now and I was slowly phasing Brian out of my life. I was planning to sell the loft as well, it was more room then I really needed for just me and it was only a painful reminder that he was gone and not coming back.

I promise myself that I'm not going to let this postcard send my life into a tailspin like that letter did. I am not, under any circumstances, getting on a plane headed to L.A. to look for him. I've decided by this point that if Brian wanted to be found, someone would have found him. Michael has had a private detective looking for him for years, and not even he can turn up anything useful. We've had a couple false leads, but nothing at all for the past two years since that letter.

I grab a magnet and stick the postcard on the fridge, hope that I can fight the urge to look for him again, and go to bed.

* * * *

I hear the phone ringing from somewhere very far away and I fight to find the sound.

When I finally come awake I grab the phone off the table beside the bed and mumble, "'Lo?" I can hear a lot of noise in the background, like whoever it is, is calling from a payphone in a city. When a voice doesn't answer, I say again, "Hello?"

"It's beautiful here when the sun comes up."

I sit up straight, "Brian?" I ask, even though I know it's him, I could never forget that voice, it sounds like home to me. I glance at the clock; it's eight a.m. so if he really is in L.A. there's a very good chance he's watching the sun come up as we speak. "Brian, where are you?"

I hear him sigh and it's another two minutes before he says anything else, "I miss you, Sunshine."

I fall apart at the words, "I miss you too Brian," I whisper. When he doesn't speak I find my voice to try to keep him talking, "Brian, what's going on? Where are you? Can I see you?"

"I love you." He says quietly.

His words stir up all the anger that has been inside me since he left seven years ago. Those three simple little words that he could have said while he was still here and never did. The words that might have kept us together if only he could have said them sooner rather then later.

"You asshole! You un-fucking-believable moron! Do you have any idea how long I waited to hear those words and you choose now, while you're God knows where and I haven't seen you in seven years to tell me you love me? Well fuck you too, Brian!"

I hear him chuckle and just like that I'm crying again, more in love with him then ever. "Oh God," I sob into the phone, "please Brian, I love you too, you know that, you have to know. Please, just tell me where you are."

I hear him sigh a few times, like he's trying to make a decision, "Vegas." And then all I hear is the click of the phone hanging up and he's gone.

* * * *

When the phone rings in the middle of the night a week later I come awake instantly and grab the receiver.

"Brian?" I ask right away, bypassing hello.

"Psychic now, Sunshine?" He asks and God it's good to hear his voice.

I laugh a little, "just hopeful." I say. I lay back against the pillows, "where are you now?"

"Paris," he answers, "I always wanted to see Paris during the spring. It's as beautiful as everyone always said it was."

I close my eyes, savor his voice, "tell me all about it, Brian." Whether he's really there or not, I know he'll come up with something good to tell me that will make it sound like he's there and will make me feel like I'm there with him.

He laughs and it makes my heart skip a beat, "flowers are in bloom everywhere, the blossoms are colors that you can't even imagine. It's all so vibrant and alive I can barely stand it. The air is so warm; it's a perfect temperature all day long and just slightly cooler at night. Everywhere here the air smells of fresh baked bread and fresh coffee."

"Brian … " I whisper and it's all I can do. There's so much I want to tell him but I don't have the words for the things I need to say. I can't explain how much I miss him, how much I love him still. I could never find the words to express how deeply he hurt me, but how quickly I'd be willing to forgive him if only he'd tell me where he was and let me come see him.

I hear him sigh, "I know, Sunshine." He says and then I hear the click that lets me know he's gone again.

I clench my hand around the phone, barely feeling the hard plastic held in my grasp. I open my eyes, but the loft begins to spin around me so I close them again. I can't believe the amount of pull he still has over me, one letter, a postcard and two short phone calls in seven years is all it takes to make me fall apart over him. The more I think about that the more I realize how simple it all is. My life without Brian has been a shadow, a game of make believe. Without him in my life nothing is real, nothing is solid without his touch. The small pieces of him I've been allowed the past seven years are tiny glimmers of how things used to be when I felt alive.

I need to share my life with him to make anything exist. 

Without him nothing matters, nothing is real.

There is no me without him.


	3. Stamps and Postmarks

I'm aware that the title isn't going to make much sense once you read the story, but it's the title of the song I got inspired by to write this story, so I just left it as the title.

* * *

Justin woke up to a loud, steady banging on the loft door. He rolled over with a groan and pulled a pillow over his head, he intended to ignore who ever it was until they went away. 

But when the knocking didn't stop, Justin called out, "I'm coming, Jesus!" And started towards the door. When he pulled it open he glared at the man on the other side, "this had better be damn important."

The guy looked at him unfazed, as though he heard that kind of thing all the time, "Are you Justin Taylor?"

Justin nodded, "yeah, I am."

The man held out a clipboard and a pen, "sign here, please."

Justin took the clipboard and signed his name, the man handed him a slim envelope and then walked away without saying another word. Justin took the envelope to the desk where he slid a letter opener under the seal to open it. He pulled out a plane ticket with a sticky note stuck to the front of it. It didn't say anything personal, just had the name and address of a hotel scrawled on it in a handwriting that Justin would always recognize as clearly as he recognized his own. He opened the envelope holding the plane ticket; he wasn't surprised by the destination:

Ibiza. 

Justin sat down on the couch and stared out the window across the city. Twelve years since Brian left had passed with no word from him since those two phone calls five long years ago. Justin looked down at the plane ticket in his hands, wondered what kind of game this was to Brian, what he was thinking when he did these things. Hardly a word from him in twelve years and suddenly a plane ticket and the address of a hotel in Ibiza. Justin could only assume that Brian was there, hopefully waiting for him. But he wasn't going to get his hopes up, he'd done that when he'd heard from Brian in the past only to have his heart shattered when Brian never called back or sent another postcard.

It was the fear of missing some contact from Brian that kept Justin living in the loft all these years. He'd wanted to sell it, had even put it on the market a few times, but in the end he couldn't bear to do it. What if Brian called again? Or came back looking for him? Justin would never be able to forgive himself if Brian tried to find him and he'd been gone. So he stayed, by himself more often then not, and hoped everyday that Brian would contact him again.

And here it was, in his hand, contact. Justin stared at the ticket, knew he shouldn't go. Why should Brian get to call all the shots, again? Brian had always been the one to make the rules, to decide when and how often to dole out his affection to Justin, always giving him just enough to keep him around. And know this, a plane ticket, not even with a note. Brian just expected him to get on a plane and fly half way around the world at a moments notice. 

Justin sighed, who was he trying to kid? Of course he was going to go … how could he not?

* * * *

When Justin stepped out of the cab in front of the hotel he was meet with a blast of warm, dry air and the scent of lemons. It was exactly as he'd imagined it would be on the plane ride here. Justin went into the hotel lobby where it was wonderfully dark and cool, a sharp contrast to being outside. He went to the front desk and asked if there was a Brian Kinney staying there.

"Yes Sir, he's been expecting you. Mr. Kinney is out by the pool. I'll have your things sent to your room for you," The man singled for the bellboy and pointed Justin in the direction of the pool.

Justin looked around the crowded pool area, but it didn't take long for his eyes to land on Brian. Justin sucked in a sharp breath, after twelve years it seemed that little had changed about Brian. He was still beautiful, still lean and muscled; his eyes were covered with dark sunglasses, so Justin didn't know if Brian had spotted him yet. Justin forced himself to put one foot in the front of the other and walk towards the lounge chair that Brian was laying on.

When he was just a few feet away, Brian spoke, "Took you long enough," were the first words out of his mouth. He pulled the dark glasses off his eyes.

Justin smiled, "I had to fuck the bellboy first," Justin answered.

"Was he any good?" Brian asked.

Justin only shrugged; he hadn't come here for this. As much as he loved their panted Brian-Justin sarcastic banter, he had questions that needed answers.

Brian seemed to understand this without Justin saying a word, "lets go up to the room." He stood up and walked away, looking back only to make sure was following him.

When they got to the room Brian sat down on the couch, and motioned for Justin to do the same thing.

Justin twisted his hands together and looked around the room, "why now, Brian? Why wait twelve fucking years and then send me a plane ticket?"

Brian was silent for long moments before answering, "I intended to do this sooner, believe me, but life gets in the way."

"Why did you leave in the first place?"

"I was suffocating, Sunshine, I was going to die if I didn't get out of Pittsburgh. You have to believe me though; I never intended to stay away so long. I was only going to leave for a few months, six at the very most and then go back, if only for you. Things happen though … I settled down somewhere else, started a new business and I was as happy as I could be, so I stayed."

"In Arizona?" Justin asked.

Brian looked at him, confused, "Arizona? Oh, the letter … no, I wasn't in Arizona; I was just passing through on the move again when I mailed that letter. I was on my way back to Pittsburgh at that point." Brian paused and took Justin's hand in his own, "but I never made it that far. My cancer came out of remission at that point and I didn't want to go back to you sick. I didn't want you to think I only went back because I was sick and needed to be taken care of."

"Brian you should have come back then … God I was so worried about you!"

Brian nodded, "I know, Sunshine, I'm a shit."

"Are you okay?" Justin asked.

"I am now, it was much harder then the first go 'round, but I'm okay." Brian stared across the room, thinking deeply. "I was in and out of the hospital for two years dealing with it, then I went to California. After that I stopped in Vegas and then hopped a plane to Paris."

Justin only nodded, the phone calls and the postcard had come during that time. 

Brian kept talking, "then I just traveled around the world … I never stayed anywhere too long because the longer I stayed in one place the more I wanted to go back to Pittsburgh. At some point I managed to convince myself you'd forgotten me anyway, that you'd moved on, and that made it easier for me to keep moving. Finally I just got comfortable running, convinced myself that it was the only way I had to live."

Justin shook his head, "I wasn't ever able to move on, Brian, how could I? You never gave me a chance. Just when I'd start getting my life back together you'd send a letter, or a postcard or call in the middle of the fucking night from Paris. How was I supposed to move on when nothing ever ended?"

"When I sent the plane ticket I figured it would come back to me, I had very little hope that you'd still be living in the loft. I was surprised when I found out you had signed out for it, and then all I could do was wait." Brian turned towards Justin, cupped his face in his hand, "and here you are." 

Justin leaned into Brian's touch, closing his eyes and breathing in Brian's scent. He felt Brian move closer to him, almost cried when Brian's arms went around his shoulders, pulling him close. This what he had been missing, this was what he'd ached for in the middle of the night in bed alone. It was as if the twelve years had never passed as Justin remembered the feel of Brian's body on his, the way Brian's hands felt on his skin. These are things he couldn't ever forget no matter how hard he tried.

And when Justin finally felt Brian's lips against his, he knew that nothing had changed between them. Time and distance had done nothing to change how either man felt. Their kiss spoke volumes, told them both that twelve years and thousands of miles meant very little now that they were back together. 

Justin felt Brian's body against his and he felt real for the first time since Brian had left him. The world started turning again, time picked up right where it had left off so long ago.

This was all that mattered.

This is all that was real.


End file.
